


The Art of Staying Aloft

by melodious_rain



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Depression, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Thilbo, Two Shot, War Mention, bagginshield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:58:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3226652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melodious_rain/pseuds/melodious_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An act of kindness from a stranger can often save even one bitter soul. Most people don't realize they have saved a life at least once, just by being an out of place beacon of hope for a desperate person who needs just one reason why. Or rather, one reason why not.<br/>Thorin has lost everything: his home, his wealth, his comrades, and most of his family. The outlook for him is bleak, and it seems he has nothing to live for. He has become a shadow of his older self, nothing more than a shell going through the motions. Desperately he seeks a way out, and one night, it all hits him at once. This is what draws him to the bridge, staring down at choppy, freezing depths that seem to call his name.<br/>That's where Bilbo finds him, about to jump to his death, and Bilbo desperately tries to stop him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Look Out Below

**Author's Note:**

> In which I use the word 'desperately' far too much. Please forgive me if I muck this up too bad, if it's unrealistic or anything, I've never tried jumping off a bridge before nor do I have wartime PTSD just bare with me here.

 

Bilbo Baggins passed by him on his way over the bridge. The only reason he'd caught Bilbo's attention was because he was taking up nearly half the sidewalk. That, and he was also absurdly attractive. The man had long soot-colored hair past his shoulders, streaked through with ashy streaks of grey. His tall, broad form leaned languidly on the cold metal railing, booted feet crossed as he took up more space than really necessary. But it was getting late and the evening foot traffic was dwindling to very few and far between faces. The man faced the river, staring at the hazy sun as it sunk in the murky sky, with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

 

At the time, Bilbo simply dodged him and then a rubbish bin and went on his way, the image of the handsome man's stern profile lingering in his mind's eye for perhaps a moment longer than needed before continuing on.

 

Inside Thorin Oakenshield was a black hole slowly tearing him to pieces. Days and weeks and months and years had passed with this horrible feeling lingering, with no end in sight. His best days, when he managed to scrape by, it still felt like there was no happiness in the world. The days that were meant to be good, when his sister visited or his nephews stayed the night, he felt as if he were watching paint drying. Dredging up a smile took massive effort. He didn't even bother faking it anymore, really.

 

And then there were days like this. This was likely the lowest he'd felt since... Well, since that time. His time in holes, with blood on his hands and clothes and no amount of scrubbing could take it away. Or the time were fire scorched his skin and stole his whole life.

 

He had barely more than nothing. Every goddamn day was a fucking struggle, and it only seemed to get worse. His sisters words of encouragement couldn't reach him now, but even when she said them it only made him feel _weak._ What kind of fucking big brother was he if he couldn't handle this. If he constantly needed reassuring. He felt needy and useless and by god he _hated it._ It was embarrassing and terrible and he just wanted it to fucking _end._

 

And as he stared down from the height of the bridge, he wondered what it would be like. Would it be peaceful? What would the impact feel like? Would he feel it at all? The idea of falling seemed so sweet, so calming... To just let it all go, stop clinging, stop struggling... What did he have to lose?

 

Realizing he'd let his cherry fall, he hastily spat out the filter and stuffed his frozen fingers into his pocket in search of his pack. Lighting up another cigarette, he at once marveled and hated the warmth of the flame. As it flickered out he stared and blinked at the spots it left on his vision. Assaulted at once memories of the fire, and of his lost home.

 

He really ought to quit smoking.

 

Or...

 

His gaze dropped once again to the bleak, grey waves below.

 

Meanwhile, Bilbo was exiting the cafe a few blocks from the bridge, a coffee in one hand, files tucked under his arm, and the other hand shaking the hand of an elderly man with a white beard.

 

"We appreciate your help on this, Bilbo," said the old man with a gravely voice.

 

"Of course, of course, Gandalf," Bilbo replied with a professional smile, "It's not every day you get to hand draw an uncharted island, it's really an honor."

 

"Yes..." murmured Gandalf, withdrawing his hand and tucking it into the pocket of his grey trench coat. "Well, thanks again, and do take care, old friend."

 

Bilbo nodded once, still smiling, with a, "Same to you," before Gandalf turned and went on his way, hunched against the bitter chill.

 

The map-maker quickly ensured he had everything and then began heading back, in the opposite direction of Gandalf. Checking his watch, he found his meeting had lasted maybe twenty or thirty minutes, but already the sky had darkened exponentially. The western most part of the sky held only a slight glow of violet, and the street lamps had come on, turning the sidewalk a dim yellow. It also suddenly seemed too cold for his many layers, so he zipped up his windbreaker and tried to bury his face in his knitted scarf.

 

The night was quiet and desolate, utterly devoid of the few passerbys he'd seen earlier on. They'd all likely done the smart thing and fled to the safety of warm homes and hot cups of tea.

 

All except one.

 

Huffing out a cloud of warm fog, Bilbo hustled down the sidewalk, swapping his warm coffee between his hands. He didn't like staying out after dark, paranoia and yearning for the comfort of his home hastening his steps. Hopping from pool of light to pool of light in the street lamps distracted him for a moment from the figure ahead, but eventually, something, some strange unknown force, drew his eyes from the ground and made him look at the bridge.

 

This is something of a strange thing for Bilbo, for he spent most of his time staring down at his feet, only looking up when really required to. But something tore his eyes from his shoes and he thanked it every day after that it did.

 

He stopped in  his tracks, blinking at the sight before him as his startled brain tried to catch up with exactly what it was he was seeing. Second guessing his eyes, triple guessing the implication, and quadruple guessing what his reaction should be, he stared at the man standing on the wrong side of the railing.

 

Make that two.

 

If he recognized it as the man he'd passed by earlier, it didn't occur to him now. The man hung precariously from the rail, which he clenched firmly in white-knuckled hands. There was maybe a handful of inches of concrete on the other side of the railing, where the heels of his boots rested with his toes hanging a hundred meters above certain death.

 

It was this thought that spurred Bilbo into action, when he realized, suddenly, desperately, that this man was about to kill himself. And there was absolutely no one here to stop him with the exception of Bilbo himself.

 

He pulled himself short, a shout on his lips, but he stifled it, realizing that startling him might make this end a whole lot quicker than he wanted it to. His heart in his throat, he tried to get as close as he could without surprising the man. Thankfully, he was superbly quiet when he wanted to be.

 

However, he was not, in fact, invisible, and the man caught a glimpse of Bilbo in his peripheral vision and jerked his head around to look at him.

 

"Don't come any closer!" the man's voice boomed, giving Bilbo the fright of his life.

 

After recovering, Bilbo tried to make himself look as non threatening as possible (not very difficult really) by splaying his fingers in a placating gesture. "Okay, alright," said Bilbo in a soft voice. "You... you alright there?" he asked, eyes flicking down to the man's hands which still clung to the bars. Praying they would remain there.

 

It appeared Bilbo's sudden appearance had solidified the man's resolve, and he turned back to look out at the black river. "I will be soon," he answered, turning Bilbo's heart cold.

 

"No, no, no," stammered Bilbo, shuffling forward in panic. "Don't do that!" he begged.

 

"Why shouldn't I?" the man challenged, gazing down at the pitch dark water.

 

"Well, because..." Bilbo floundered, utterly at a loss of what was proper to say in this situation. He realized politeness would get him absolutely nowhere, and cut right to the chase instead. There was no proper way, no polite phrasing, nothing he could think of that would make this easier. So he asked, "Why would you?"

 

The man furrowed his brow, distracted. "Because there's no reason not to. I've lost everything, and it's just too much to bother with," explained the man curtly. "It's better for everyone if I just disappear."

 

Bilbo was already shaking his head in disagreement. He felt ridiculous relief when the man turned to look at him, only slightly. He had his attention, so he could talk him out of this. "I highly doubt that," he told the man confidently. "No one benefits from someone they care about dying."

 

The man opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut. After a moment he said, "Well, _I_ will." His fingers loosened on the railing.

 

Heart leaping in fear, Bilbo raised his hand as if to stop him. "No! Wait, no, you have the rest of your life ahead of you, don't do this -"

 

"Life is cheap," interrupted the man. His long hair fell over his shoulders and whipped about in the chilled wind.

 

Bilbo felt frustration tinge the desperation in his voice as he argued, " _No,_ it _isn't._ It's the most valuable thing there is."

 

"And the most painful."

 

Bilbo's heart suddenly ached for this man. "Yes... yes, but also the most wonderful."

 

The man only scoffed, and to Bilbo's horror, let go with one hand

 

to raise his smoldering cigarette to his lips.

 

Dizzy with fright, Bilbo stepped forward, ready to reach out and yank the man to safety.

 

"Take another step and I'll jump," threatened the man darkly.

 

Bilbo didn't doubt him.

 

Steeling himself, and taking a deep breath, Bilbo tried again. "Okay, so..." he pursed his lips, and wiggled his frozen nose. "So, I read an article once... they interviewed a some people who attempted suicide and, erm, survived... And every one of them told the interviewer that they realized, about half way down, that every single problem that caused them to jump was in fact fixable..." Bilbo exhaled heavily through his nose, staring intensely at the man as he exhaled a cloud of grey smoke. "Every... single one of them said that. So, imagine all the ones... all the ones that _didn't_ make it, who probably thought the same thing," Bilbo finished, his voice breaking horribly at the end.

 

There was a throaty chuckle that made Bilbo warm down to his toes. He didn't realize it now, but he would later give anything to hear that laugh every day of his life. The man turned to look at him with an empty smile and emptier eyes and told him, "That's a nice story Mister Grocer, but this is the best I've felt in months."

 

And there, dangling off the rusted railing of an old, oxidized bridge, he felt more alive than he'd felt in ages. Thorin couldn't remember how long it had been since he felt this light, this free. With the knowledge that loosening a couple of fingers could result in no more worries, no more pain, no more empty days of nothingness, he felt an unhinged sort of peace. He held on by only one hand now, and his the exhilaration of looking down both excited and terrified him.

 

However, he would be lying if he said there was no shadow of doubt in the back of his mind. The short grocer was bothering him, but not in the way he expected. He almost... felt sorry for him.

 

"What's your name?" Thorin wondered idly.

 

"Bilbo Baggins," answered the little man quickly, "What's yours?"

 

Thorin ignored his question. "Mister Baggins, if you so wish you can return to the warmth of your home and pretend this night never happened. I doubt you'll want to watch. I will wait until you are out of sight, even."

 

Bilbo Baggins shook his head vehemently, his mop of curls flopping about his face. He stared beseechingly into Thorin's eyes, which were locked on him for the moment. "Listen..." he began. And Thorin did, for whatever reason. "I understand it might... seem hopeless. But it can be fixed. If you _want_ it fixed."

 

There was blood in his vision, on his hands, and bodies in the ground. "No," disagreed Thorin. "You can't bring back the dead."

 

The small man stared at him blankly for a moment, mouth open, about to respond. "You're right," he agreed after a moment. "But dying is no way to honor them."

 

Thorin was growing frustrated with this stranger, not realizing he'd been successfully drawn into conversation with him. "What do you know about honor?" Thorin scoffed.

 

"Not sure, but I know plenty about dead people," countered the stranger.

 

He was getting irritated, and turned around on his precarious perch to fully face the other man. "Don't compare yourself to me. You have no idea who I am, or what I've been through."

 

Instead of getting defensive, the strange Bilbo Baggins agreed with him. "Of course I don't, and I'm sure you've been through a hell of a lot..." Thorin watched the man's gaze trail down his face to his throat, and he realized his dog tags had slipped out from under his button down. "And... and everything you're feeling is completely valid."

 

Thorin actually blinked in shock.

 

But he wasn't done talking, and continued, "Just please, know that if you do this, everyone you have ever known will miss you. And everyone you would have known will too, even if they don't know it." Bilbo Baggins, the strange creature he was, stood firm in the pool of golden yellow light cast by the lamp behind him. He squared his shoulders and stared into Thorin's eyes with such unwavering sincerity it almost knocked him over. He still held the paper cup in his hand, while the other clenched and unclenched at his side, betraying his nerves.

 

At some point during the conversation between the two of them, it had begun to snow.

 

Thorin  hooked his elbows over the railing, leaning on it in a mimicry of what he'd down earlier in the evening, only now very much on the wrong side of it. He felt less like he was clinging to life and more like he was clinging to sanity. He searched over this stranger's shadowed face, measuring his words, his expression, adding it all up in his head in a familiar sort of way.

 

"Why do you care?" Thorin asked.

 

Bilbo Baggins did something funny with his face then, sort of wiggling his nose but it involved a lot of mouth. It reminded Thorin of something... Bilbo shuffled his feet, glancing down, then looked right back up at Thorin as if deciding what to say.

 

Oh, a _bunny._ Thorin internally snickered.

 

"I supposed you could say I'm selfish," said Bilbo unexpectedly.

 

Thorin's confusion must have shown on his face.

 

"Well, I certainly don't want to be the last person you speak to. And I don't want the memory of this evening give me nightmares for the rest of my life..." he trailed off, and Thorin frowned at him disapprovingly, not liking his answer at all.

 

But then he added, "And I also want to get to know you, if that's alright."

 

Thorin was a little taken aback. Really? This little, homely thing wanted to _know_ this crazed man hanging off a bridge? What was _wrong_ with him?

 

The irony that he was wondering what was wrong with the person trying to talk _him_ out of jumping off a bridge wasn't lost on him.

  
Silence stretched into the cold night, and snow began to dust their shoulders. Not a single car rumbled over the stone bridge, nor did anyone wander the streets. It was only the two of them, the bridge, and the snow. Thorin found himself weighing his options in his head, doubt finally muddling the peace he had previously felt. He was thinking of Dis, his sister who loved him so dearly, his young nephews who looked up to him so reverently, and strangely enough this odd, shivering creature who stood before him holding chilled coffee. He knew how much of a disappointment he was to his family, but he also imagined how much more disappointed they would be if they learned of this. They would think less of him, surely.

 

But then again... none of that would matter to _him_ when he was dead. And, if what Bilbo Baggins had said was true and he _did_ regret it when he was halfway down, he would _only_ regret it for a second...

 

But...

 

What if...

 

Bilbo could see the war raging on the strange man's face, and his only thought was to help him over this railing, in whatever way he could. This had already been the _craziest_ thing he'd ever done in all his life, so why should he stop now?

 

"Listen, how about this," Bilbo began, drawing the man's attention again. "How about you come back to my place for a cup of tea and if you still feel like revisiting this place... At least I tried talking you out of it."

 

It was a lie, to be sure. There was no way Bilbo would let this man leave his sight if he still felt like committing suicide. But he would say just about anything to get him off this bridge.

 

It was enough.

 

After a moment, the man nodded. Bilbo nearly collapsed with relief. He quickly put his things down on the snowy sidewalk and rushed over to the man, nearly slipping as he went. His heart was thrumming with adrenaline as it had since he'd laid eyes on this man, and now that they had reached an agreement his limbs were shaking and he felt a little dizzy.

 

Swallowing thickly, Thorin stubbed out his cigarette and let the butt plummet to the river beneath him. Suddenly unwilling to look down, he made to get back over the railing.

 

He changed his footing and his boot found slick snow, and he slipped.


	2. How to Save a Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The resolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheap cliffhangers are cheap. I swear I didn't intend to leave it there, I was just like 'hurrr okay so this chapter will be about 3k long and will end after Bilbo convinces him not to jump' and then my fingers did a thing and cheap cliffhangers happened. I'm sorry. But I totally spoiled it for you in the tags so like???
> 
> Anyway, here's the other half. 
> 
> Read in Gandalf's voice for bonus points.

 

Sometimes I wonder how this tale would have ended had the next events not occurred. Would bold headlines cross the front page of newspapers, declaring a tragic suicide of an ex-heir war veteran? Or would it only be a footnote on page three? We'll never know, for that is not the ending of the story.

 

Bilbo suddenly found himself in his own precarious position as he clawed desperately at the coat of the man he'd just convinced not to commit suicide. Thorin found himself in a rather undignified position of trying to right his feet on the tiny, slippery ledge while hanging onto the railing by his elbows.

 

Much kicking on Thorin's part and hauling on Bilbo's blessedly landed the both of them sprawled in a bit of a heap on the other side of the railing.

 

Thankfully, finally, on the right side of it.

 

Gasping and panting, Bilbo worried he would _actually_ faint. His legs felt like jelly and his fingers were still clutching Thorin's coat as if he couldn't let go.

 

" _Good **gods.**_ "

 

Thorin tended to agree. His own heart was trying to burst through his ribs. It was a miraculous change from earlier, when he had welcomed and dared death to come to him. He was right alongside Bilbo in the gasping department as well. That was not a fright he'd like to have again.

 

Eventually, the two men managed to salvage their dignity and release each other, then found their way to their feet. After a bit of awkward shuffling, Bilbo seemed to get his bearings. "Right... right then, we're this way," he gestured across the bridge, still breathing a bit heavily.

 

Thorin looked down warily at his, well, savior (as begrudgingly he would admit) and couldn't help but feel a little overwhelmed. The miniscule man before him was easily someone he would overlook in his daily life. He'd probably dislike him, even, for his lack of stature or presence. But suddenly Thorin found himself bizarrely indebted to him. This little man with blue-green eyes and honeyed curls and big blue scarf.

 

He stooped down and picked up Bilbo's stack of papers and coffee cup, which lay forgotten on the walk. "Oh," murmured Bilbo as he took the proffered things. He frowned down at the paper cup for a moment, no doubt measuring its likely temperature, before tossing it in the rubbish. Then they began their walk, shoulders heavy with the day's events.

 

"Thorin."

 

Bilbo looked up in surprise, unsurprisingly staring down at his feet again. "Sorry?"

 

"My name's Thorin."

 

"Oh," Bilbo said, processing. Then he smiled, a breathless sort of smile. "It's nice to meet you, Thorin."

 

Thorin nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of that statement. After all that, it was _nice to meet you_. As they turned the corner, he realized his heart was still pounding, though he wasn't sure why.

 

They found Bilbo's street, which was on a hill, then came to an apartment building. Looking up, Thorin hoped he wouldn't have to climb up too many stairs. He was suddenly overcome with exhaustion, which wasn't uncommon after... episodes. But Bilbo was walking down a set of stone stairs to a green door and Thorin realized he lived in the basement suite. A bit of key-jingling later, Bilbo was ushering his impromptu guest into the flat. Dusted with snow, the two of them stood on the welcome mat and breathe a sigh of relief.

 

 

Thorin looked around what he could see of the flat, finding 'warm' to be the perfect term for it. The walls were saffron yellow, and colourful rugs were all over the hardwood floor. Much warmer than the tile he had all over his own home. As he removed his boots and coat at Bilbo's request, a chime and meow were all the alerted him to his impending assault by a fat cat.

 

"That's Myrtle," Bilbo explained as he hung up their coats; Thorin's blue and his own burgundy. "Hope you're not allergic," he added.

 

Thorin wasn't. The cat assaulted his ankles with her face, rubbing her scent all over his trousers, and jingling the little bell on her collar.

 

Bilbo led Thorin into the house and had him sit in the living room before hustling into the kitchen to put the kettle on. And as Thorin pet Myrtle, who had claimed his lap in the name of sits, he wondered exactly what his life had come to. Here he was in a strange person's home, accepting charity? He wasn't sure what he should feel about this. Likely some good old self-directed anger or maybe some brooding hatred, but the effect was quite dampened by the overweight purring calico lounging on his thighs. Sighing and scratching his beard idly, his gaze roved over the walls of what was undoubtedly Bilbo's bachelor pad. Many a sketch was pinned up, especially over a large work desk in the corner. There was one grand map that took up most of the wall above it, beautiful landscapes sketched and some painted, some even framed. His calculating eyes trailed over many potted plants, lingering on a flourishing pink orchid by the window.

 

His sister had murdered maybe three orchids in her life, and dubbed them the most difficult (bleeping) plant in the (bleeping) world.

 

He was fiddling with some lilac-coloured four-petaled flowers, which might just be lilacs, when Bilbo returned with two steaming mugs of tea. Thorin didn't comment about the addition of sugar or milk, which he normally didn't take, but nodded once in thanks. He found he couldn't quite meet his savior's eyes at the present moment, and his stomach turned with an unsettling feeling. It took him only a moment to name the reason for these two odd things, for it was shame. It burned him from within, and he could feel himself unraveling at the seams. But, as he stared into the mug of warm tea, he managed to put up a stoic front. He had far too much experience for it to crack now.

 

"Good gracious, I don't know _how_ I'm gonna make this map in the amount of time Gandalf gave me."

 

Thorin jerked in shock at Bilbo's sudden outburst. The small man sat serenely in his armchair, looking over at his wall of sketches and maps. Thorin blinked, going over the words in his head for a moment before deciding they weren't a threat. "You know Gandalf?" Thorin wondered. Gandalf had been an old associate of his, but that was a long time ago.

 

Bilbo only nodded. "Yep, he's an old friend. I'm not surprised you know him; he gets around. The most eccentric billionaire I know, and I know approximately one billionaire so there's that. He knows I don't make maps for a living, that would just be ridiculous in this day and age, but he wanted something personal and unique for the new island he just bought. Crazy old kook." And so Bilbo went on babbling, filling the silence with easy, simple chatter. The small talk wasn't particularly interesting, nor did it pertain to the elephant in the room, but it was distracting. Thorin learned much about Bilbo Baggins in the hour he spent listening to the man ramble on and on. He learned that he was a creature of very many hobbies and humble means, who enjoyed the comforts of home over wealth or even (shudder) financial stability. But Bilbo was content as long as he ate well, it seemed, as one of his many hobbies was cooking.

 

And as the hour grew later, Thorin found himself calmed, whether it by the cozy house, the warm tea, the comfortable sofa, or the constant soothing voice with no pressure to respond, he wasn't sure. His worries and fears ebbed for a second, leaving him able to enjoy this moment of peace.

 

After they had both drained their mugs, Bilbo went off to refill them with the cat following him, and Thorin decided he felt stable enough to say something. Bracing his elbows on his knees and knitting his fingers in front of his mouth, he waited for his host to return. When he reappeared, in all his green-knitted jumper glory, Thorin spoke up. His voice was rough from either disuse or emotion, but he tried not to dwell on it.

 

"I should thank you, Mister Baggins," Thorin began a bit stiffly, still not in his usual state of mind.

 

"Bilbo is just fine," his host corrected.

 

"Thank you for your... hospitality." That sounded lame. "And for... what you did. I'm not sure why you did it, but I am grateful all the same."

 

The silence lasted a few beats before Bilbo set the refilled mugs on the coffee table and reclaimed his seat. He sat in a way that mimicked Thorin: leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, but his clasped hands hung in front of him; slightly less closed off. "Thorin..." he seemed to compose his thoughts. "Your thanks are appreciated, but not necessary. But I want you to know, that I would do it again a hundred times over." Bilbo frowned down at the floor for a second, seeming to reconsider his statement. "What I mean to say is, should you feel that way again, you are more than welcome to come... to come here, for tea, for anything," he amended, then smiled at getting it right the second time.

 

Thorin was struck again by the strangeness of the situation he was in. He hastily said, "I don't want to impose upon you, you're not obligated -"

 

"I know I'm not obligated." Bilbo raised his chin fractionally. "I want to. If you don't want it, you need not take it."

 

"I won't," Thorin promised, feeling wretched again. "You don't even know me."

 

Bilbo's smile had faded, and now he ducked his head. "You're right... But I was being honest earlier."

 

He meant on the bridge, when he'd said he was selfish. Thorin wasn't having it. There was no way he would pull a stranger into his fucked up life. Maybe if they'd met on different terms it would have been easier, but this Bilbo Baggins had literally stumbled upon him when he was at his worst. Thorin was a prideful man, he knew. It was a flaw, as his sister so often reminded him. But it was because of his pride that he loathed to be seen as weak. Therefore, any sort of friendship he had with Bilbo after this would be tinged with a feeling of pity for the poor depressed Thorin who was half out his mind with hopelessness. Thorin couldn't live with that. Better to cut his losses before he got in too deep.

 

"Really, I can't thank you enough. But I should go," announced Thorin with an air of finality. He stood to leave and Bilbo watched him with a dejected expression. Hesitantly he stood as well, and Thorin took this as permission to take his leave. With a  nod, he turned to go.

 

"Wait, Thorin!"

 

Only to be caught by his shirtsleeve.

 

Thorin paused, a bit alarmed at the sudden tension in the room. He didn't turn back around, instead he waited.

 

"You have to at least promise me you won't try that again. Not on the bridge, not at home, not on the street. You've got to swear if you feel like doing that again, that you'll... that you'll get _help,_ " begged the earnest, quiescent being that was Bilbo Baggins.

 

Thorin's heart ached for him then, wishing uselessly that he could get over his pride and protect this unsullied soul from the nastiness of the world, because really, the world would be so much better of a place if more people were like Bilbo Baggins. But he was not, and he couldn't, and so he said, "I swear it." Then he turned to face his savior with a blank mask over his face and offered his hand stiffly.

 

Eyes searching through his and finding nothing, Bilbo took Thorin's hand and allowed Thorin to give it a professional, firm shake.

 

"I can see myself out. Thank you, Mister Baggins."

 

And with an empty feeling, Bilbo listened to Thorin shuffle in the entryway as he retrieved his coat and boots, then the door open and shut softly, as if in apology. Standing in the middle of his sitting room with two full cups of cold tea to clear way, he heaved an exhausted sigh. Pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing his eyes, Bilbo wondered exactly what he'd said to chase Thorin off. But ultimately, he reasoned, it wasn't his decision. He could only hope Thorin would pick what was best for himself, and really that's what he needed to do. Never mind that Bilbo felt helpless or utterly useless, he could just cling to the hope he would never see that headline.

 

But that didn't stop him from pouring through every inch of the morning paper each day after that one.

 

For Thorin, life returned to normal. Days turned into weeks and he was astonished at how little had changed. His sister noticed no change in him, his nephews thought nothing of his brooding looks, his only friend Dwalin didn't say a word if he noticed anything amiss. Thorin was a little disturbed by it. He ought to be comforted, for none of those close to him knew about his lapse of perseverance. No one knew of his moment of weakness.

 

And if he avoided that particular bridge for a month after, going multiple blocks out of his way just to stay away from it, no one cared less than he did. He found himself wondering what his almost-friend Bilbo Baggins would have to say about that. He often thought about Mister Baggins. Wondered what he was doing, what he was drawing now, if he'd finished that map for Gandalf. He remembered the ephemeral respite he had found in Bilbo Baggins' company, often revisiting it in his memories. Eventually his usual haze of listlessness turned into something else entirely, though he knew not why. But it was clear what it was, even if the reasoning behind it was unclear, but it had a name: regret.

 

With a resigned sigh, one evening he pulled on his coat and gloves and went to the bridge.

 

Bilbo himself was headed home from the same cafe where he'd met with Gandalf on that fateful night more than a month ago. He felt rather tired recently, and yet he couldn't very well sleep at night. He bounced the idea of sleep aids around as he dodged incoming people on the sidewalk. With his chin held high and surveying the people around him, he noticed something strangely familiar up ahead.

 

A figure in a dark blue coat with a coal black ponytail leaned gingerly against the railing, looking out at the river. The man exhaled a cloud of smoke into the early evening air.

 

Even from a distance Bilbo could recognize those broad shoulders anywhere. Gods know he spent far too much time picturing them as well as everything else that was attached to them.

 

Thorin took another drag of his cigarette, looking over at the gorgeous sunset on the river. Brilliant pinks and reds flooded the sky, and the water was shimmering with lovely colours. The clouds caught the light and diffused into a range of hues that was too complex for him to consider painting. It was as he exhaled his drag that he heard a voice passing by say,

 

"Those things will kill you, you know."

 

When he searched the sparse crowd with frantic fervor, and he would be thrice-damned if he didn't pick out a short figure in a burgundy coat within seconds. Bilbo seemed content to let Thorin catch up if he wished, which Thorin did, after stepping on his cigarette to extinguish the ember.

 

"Fancy meeting you here," called Thorin as he came up behind the smaller man.

 

Bilbo threw a beaming smile over his shoulder. "Speak for yourself," he shot back.

 

Thorin managed to pretend he had met Bilbo under different circumstances, and not once did Bilbo remind him of the truth. Instead they spoke of easy topics like the day's events, how work was, how Myrtle was doing. Thorin easily got every one of his questions answered. Bilbo was nearly finished with Gandalf's map, and was working on some portraits in his spare time. Not anything commissioned, Bilbo told him, just for fun.

 

Eventually the cold got to them, and after a short stop off at a bookshop, Bilbo invited Thorin back to his flat for tea (again). Thorin knew he should decline, it was the sensible thing to do. He could easily say he needed to get back, it didn't matter the reason. But... you could say, he was being selfish.

 

And so the two of them caught up as if they were old acquaintances, and Thorin secretly reveled in the peace. Bilbo never pressured him to add to the conversation if he didn't want to, but Thorin actually found himself opening up a bit. This was just so _easy._ He told Bilbo about easy things, like his sister and nephews. Fili and Kili were the easiest to talk about, because everyone found their trouble-making amusing. Eventually the conversation turned into a getting-to-know-you question game, and Thorin found himself answering Bilbo's questions quickly without thinking about it too much.

 

"What's your last name?"

 

"Oakenshield. What do you do for a living?"

 

"I'm an editor for a publishing company. And I pick up odd jobs around town when money is tight. How old are you?"

 

"I'm thirty nine,"

 

"Really?"

 

"No, actually, I'm forty two."

 

"Oh, I'm thirty eight."

 

And then Bilbo started jokingly calling him 'Mister Oakenshield' because Thorin insisted on calling him 'Mister Baggins' and it was only proper because Thorin was actually the older one. Thorin found he didn't like it, however amusing, because it made him feel old and tried to get Bilbo to stop. Tea was had and cakes were eaten and Myrtle demanded attention. And Thorin was content.

 

Eventually, there was a lull in the conversation. Thorin was bemused by it for a while, keeping his eyes on Bilbo who looked contemplative as he sipped his tea. In reality, Bilbo was summoning up the courage to ask something that might send Thorin rocketing out the door.

 

"So... how are you?" Bilbo finally asked searchingly, his eyes locked on Thorin's.

 

The mood turned more serious, suddenly. Thorin knew this wasn't the same 'how are you' that he'd been greeted with earlier in the day. This was deeper than that. And for a moment, Thorin pondered over his answer. Right now, he felt amazing. But that wasn't true from day to day. He couldn't very well say "The same," because Bilbo only knew the worst of it and would take it the wrong way. So finally he said, "I'm managing." It was the most honest answer he had. And while there was a flare of discomfort in his stomach about the topic itself, he decided to try his hand at being open with Bilbo at least.

 

Bilbo fidgeted in his seat, looking even more uncomfortable than Thorin felt. "Well, good. Have you started seeing anyone...?"

 

Thorin threw his head back and laughed, knowing Bilbo didn't mean it in that way, but he couldn't help but find it funny. The poor man turned red as he presumably saw his mistake. Before Bilbo could start sputtering, Thorin quickly cut in. "No, I haven't started seeing any... _therapists,_ " he teased, and couldn't stop himself in time from giving the embarrassed man a wink.

 

Bilbo's reprimanding look was quite dampened by the flush that reached his hairline. He turned petulant, displeased at being made fun of, which pleased Thorin far too much. Muttering to himself, Bilbo sunk down in his chair and moodily sipped his tea while Thorin chuckled.

 

"I have considered it, though," Thorin offered in hopes of making Bilbo feel better about asking.

 

"Well, I won't force you into it, even though I think it would help," sighed Bilbo offhandedly. "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that's given to us."

 

Thorin mulled over that line idly and realized Bilbo must be some kind of writer to be making up eloquent lines like that. "You have an impressive vocabulary," he blurted unthinkingly.

 

Bilbo chortled at that. "Well, I have to. I write and edit."

 

"So you _do_ write."

 

"Yes, but I've not published anything. I don't have an agent or anything, and it's hard to make it on your own. And I was thinking _you've_ got a pretty extensive vocabulary as well. Very formal," commented Bilbo with a grin.

 

Thorin gave a light scoff. "That can be blamed on proper upbringing."

 

"So you _do_ come from money," Bilbo was definitely smirking behind his hand.

 

Thorin put up a show of being affronted. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

 

Bilbo's easily drawn laugh filled the room, and Thorin settled comfortably into the sofa. Sure, the two of them became friends with ridiculous ease in the end. In Bilbo, Thorin found peace. In Thorin, Bilbo found inspiration. The two of them shared a symbiotic relationship persisted despite hardships. You see, people simply can't fully heal other people. Depression, of course, is not so easily combated by any single individual. Bilbo does not magically cure Thorin, that would be ridiculous. But he offers his friend a helping hand, an understanding ear, and a stubborn resolve to not leave. There were times that Thorin would snap at his now dear friend, or ignore him for weeks, but Bilbo would resolutely be there still, with a cup of tea and a warm smile.

 

Bilbo eventually met the boys, and Fili and Kili adored him ferociously. Thorin could just _see_ the two of them taking advantage of poor Bilbo's gratuitous generosity, but was secretly thrilled that his nephews and his friend approved of each other. Dis even meets Bilbo later, in passing, but the look she gives her brother is significant, and smug.

 

They continue their lives, of course, and Thorin especially tries to move forward. He plans to retake his birthright, the estate and company that had been lost with the death of his father and grandfather. It wouldn't be easy, but life never is.

 

Bilbo teaches Thorin that life is about learning. And together they learn a great many things. Bilbo learns that Thorin is a horrible cook. Thorin learns that Bilbo's apple pie is good enough to die for. Bilbo learns Thorin can play the harp, of all things. Thorin learns that Bilbo is an ecstatic live audience. Bilbo learns that Thorin is willing to quit smoking. Thorin learns that the portraits Bilbo had been working on had been of Thorin himself, drawn from memory. Bilbo learns how to render Thorin speechless. Thorin learns that Bilbo found him attractive from the moment he laid eyes on him. Bilbo learns that Thorin is a fantastic kisser. Thorin learns that Bilbo makes the most _wonderful_ noises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after, until the end of their days.
> 
> Most of this was just me crying about not having enough words yet. Sorry if its lame or rushed.


End file.
